


Fertile Ground

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Neasa Adaar [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karasaad grins, bright as a new blade. Cheeks aching with happiness. “The tamassran said you had not conceived, so…?”</p><p>“Hardly a failure on your part.” A little luck, a little birthbane pilfered in her sleeves during her hours among the medicinal herbs. An excuse to spend more time with the young soldier, but she has to move quickly. Bind him fast and close like climbing vines, grow him into what she needs him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fertile Ground

_Beautiful_.

Karasaad thought he’d known beauty in elegance, the fit of a sword to the hand, the precision of a perfectly executed maneuver. Exultation from laughing with the rest of the _karataam_ , baritones blending gold with tenor and bass.

But she is a beauty of lush curves and dark eyes, generous lips and broad hips. A loose wrap about her shoulders, hinting rather than hiding the heavy hang of her breasts. Older than he by at least a decade— not the mate he would have thought the _tamassrans_ would select for his first breeding— but radiant, _ripe_ like a mango bursting sweet.

His mouth is dry.

She plucks a grape, rolls it between thumb and forefinger while smiling. Sun-drenched warmth in her voice, she asks, “Your first time, my dear?” The tilt of her chin makes it a statement.

He is an adult, a full member of the _antaam_. Unbloodied, true, but grown. A true Qunari.

“I have lain with women before,” he says, cringing at how callow that sounds even to him.

“Not my question, darling.” She presses the grape to her lips, plush and welcoming, then curls her tongue under it, brings it into her mouth.

He hears the pop, imagines the juice sweetening her kiss.

“I have had three children before this. It is not so strange, I hope. We have three days, two nights to get to know one another.” Crossing her ankles, bringing a hint of calf into view, she continues. “I would like to get to know you very well.”

. . .

They talk over more fruit and small rolls. She slathers butter on her bread, drops a dollop of jam as well— winks when he’s caught mesmerized by how she licks butter from her fingers.

He averts his eyes, heat crawling up his ears.

“We need not do this tonight, you know,” she says gently. “Talk with me. Who are you?”

“I am Karasaad,” he says, busying himself with peeling an orange. His thumb breaks the rind, white pith wedged beneath his nail. A spray of juice releases across his wrist. No help for it, he'll smell like an orchard now, but she smiles at his clumsiness.

“A soldier? Have you gone beyond Par Vollen?”

She goes slow, gentle— coaxes and teases in equal measure to ask about his days, his friends, the hours in drill and the taste of the sea. Playfully asks if he has any good scars or stories, to which he shakes his head. Not yet.

Eventually, he realizes he should be responding in kind— asks her name, her occupation.

“Issath.”

It does not surprise him; she is a woman of generous bounty. Of course her fertility extends to the soil she touches.

She talks of sun-warmed earth beneath her hands, sweat and laughter.

When finally his heart calms and she leads him to the bedroom, he thinks he is the luckiest man in Par Vollen. Round-bellied and lush, her stretch marks ripple silver across her skin. He buries himself in her flesh and is grateful beyond words.

. . .

 

The _viddathari_ nudges her with an elbow, grinning ear to ear. “So. How was your sex vacation?”

“It was a _tamassran_ -approved breeding arrangement,” she says primly. She can only hold the pose so long before laughing though, fanning her fingers across her mouth. With the young _karasaad_ she had beenIssath, but here among other farmers she is known as ‘Pumpkin’ for her full hips and belly. “He was sweet. Young. His first time.”

“Ooh, a virgin. Got to educate him?” the _viddathari_ asks. She is known as ‘Bird’ for her habit of whistling as she works.

“Not a virgin, but his first breeding. It took him a while to warm up.” Pumpkin smirks at Bird’s groan. “He was fun. Eager to please. New soldier, hasn’t even left Par Vollen yet, can you imagine?”

“I’ve _been_ outside. Trust me, it’s nicer here.” Bird rolls her eyes. “The novelty of ‘coins’ do _not_ make up for going hungry or being shut up in the shittiest part of the city.”

And it’s a familiar pattern, a litany— one Pumpkin has trained Bird into. Slowly, sweetly, like dripping honey off the comb. Pumpkin’s been planning for a while, listens whenever Bird talks of life outside the Qun. How coins work. Language, bits that Pumpkin slowly picks up. Nothing that should attract too much attention, just simple curiosity.

They gossip—Bird talking, Pumpkin coaxing— while braiding small cords, tying friendship-knots and wrapping the bracelets around each other’s wrists. Companionship, woven bands replacing metal shackles from long ago.

Bird has said— in a low voice, whispered at night as Pumpkin nestled snug against the elf, petting her back and rocking her like the sister Bird lost while ‘free’— that there is freedom outside the Qun. Freedom to starve, to sell oneself as an indentured servant or a slave for hope of stability. That at least the Qun values its parts, as the hand does the finger.

It’s hard to be seen as a ‘person’ if you are an elf. A slave.

But Pumpkin also wonders what it would be like to have a name of her own, an identity separate from her role.

Later, she makes an extra band. Crafts it white and red. Pale like her hair, red like warrior vitaar. Slips it in her pocket for future use.

. . .

 

“Why hello stranger. Fancy meeting you again,” Issath calls, rolling her shoulders to make her ample chest heave.

Karasaad grins, bright as a new blade. Cheeks aching with happiness. “The _tamassran_ said you had not conceived, so…?”

“Hardly a failure on your part.” A little luck, a little birthbane pilfered in her sleeves during her hours among the medicinal herbs. An excuse to spend more time with the young soldier, but she has to move quickly. Bind him fast and close like climbing vines, grow him into what she needs him to be. “But at least it’s fun to practice, eh?”

If he weren’t so young, if he hadn’t been so obviously awed by her at first sight, she’s not sure she would attempt this. Every year that passes is a mixed blessing as she pulls what information she can, but loses a little more time. Not yet old, but still…

So she pulls him close and clasps her thighs about his hips, twines her fingers through his hair and rocks him like the waves against the shore. Tumbles laughter and kisses about his shoulders, pulls him cool and steady as the moon.

It might be seduction, but he’ll find no sweeter bait.

. . .

 

Parting from her is a physical pain, like a knife in the gut when she squeezes goodbye.

“A shame we are only meeting for the breeding arrangements, no?” she sighs, taking a dark berry from the bowl laid out. She pops it in her mouth, red juice staining her teeth.

“I may visit you on a free day. Spend some time in the garden with you.” Because she’s described the flowering vines, the press of mint cool beneath her palm. The brilliant peppers hanging jewel-like and the smell of new earth and promise.

She smiles, sorrow tucked in the crescent of her lips. “I’ll carry our child regardless.” Her hand on his arm, nails digging lightly in the flesh of his bicep. “We know it is a most unbecoming sentimental attachment under the Qun.”

For the first time, he questions.

And he leaves with her token of knotted threads wrapped about his wrist.

. . .

 

He hopes she’s not pregnant.

He feels guilty immediately after the thought crosses his mind. Their bloodlines are meant to mingle, produce children for the Qun. It is a selfish thought, because he wants to see her again.

He’s found release with _tamassrans_ during their first month apart, but they don’t beguile the way she does. He still tries during this second month, waiting to see if he’ll be brought back a third time to conceive during her fertile days. He can find sweat and laughter with the _tamassrans_ , but not the warmth of her voice or how her lips crush his, smeared with wine and grapes. No _tamassran_ hangs on his words so, makes him wonder at how he would miss her if he crossed the sea to other lands.

He does not think to question why he’s so enchanted.

When he raises his hand, presses his wrist to the skin of his upper lip, he fancies he still smells her on his bracelet.

. . .

 

Breathless and tangled, her hair hanging about them like a scented curtain, gripping the base of his horns, she kisses his ear. Nibbles, enough to tickle and he twitches aside with a laugh.

“Third time’s the charm, hm?” she gasps. “I can _feel_ myself getting pregnant. Full and round, like the waxing moon…”

He touches his nose to the hollow of her throat, presses his lips to the space between her breasts. “Ah, don’t talk like that. Might not take this time either.”

“Worried or hoping?” In this small space, the silver hang of her hair feels like a waking dream. Shuts out the rest of the world, all the duties and obligations placed on them both. Jasmine and honeysuckle tickle his nose.

Karasaad blushes. “It is not of the Qun.”

“We are skin to skin and flesh to flesh.” She smirks, sharp teeth flashing brilliant. “Deeper than that, for there is part of _you_ in me. Pretend there is no Qun between us.”

Years later, he will question this dangerous path— think for all the sweetness in her voice, the petal-softness of her breasts and belly, he forgot that an _issath_ is also a creature used to dealing with harsh thorns and burrs, uprooting the unwelcome weeds and scrubs to make way for new seeds. She found fertile ground in him, and reaps her harvest.

But now he is young and infatuated, unblooded and quick to trust.

Haltingly, he talks of life beyond the Qun. He thinks it is the outline for an escape, but she already had the plans long in mind.

. . .

 

A month later, the _tamassran_ congratulates Issath on her pregnancy.

Amongst the other farmers, Bird toasts Pumpkin with a mug of tea, rubs her belly and kisses her navel. “Babies _love_ —” And she makes a sound, a single syllable that starts soft and warm and ends with a tang on the palate. “Helps with nausea.”

“What is that?” Pumpkin asks. She’s already had three children— no neophyte, she. But she cocks her head anyway, pursing her lips to repeat the unfamiliar sound.

Bird flushes, scratching the back of her neck. “Forgot the word. The… that is Fereldan for _mint_ ,” she says, repeating the word in qunlat.

Pumpkin rolls the word in her mouth, tastes it in her mind. A good word. And her favorite tea.

“It is a good word. And yes, the child will love it.”

. . .

 

A week later and Issath and Karasaad are on a smuggler’s ship, their passage paid by spices stolen beneath Issath's wrap. Cinnamon buys them across the Waking Sea, cumin for travel rations and guidance beyond. They ride the waves in a spray of salt and optimism, the sun catching gold and silver on Issath’s loose braids. When night falls, they make love below decks and she muffles her laughter against his throat.

(Issath silences his worries with kisses and pets, strokes the bumps of his ribs and steals his breath with every new-found wonder of her body. She keeps fragrant vanilla next to her skin, withered pods a fresh bounty for trade should they need it. Each bean a result of laborious hand-pollination, a more intimate theft than the cinnamon or cumin.)

One of the smugglers grins and murmurs directions, advice, a safehouse and contact into Issath’s ear while rubbing her belly. Then he dips to kiss her (“for luck”) and Karasaad clasps his arm in thanks.

A month after that, Issath and Karasaad are trekking through Rivain. Issath's vanilla pods are now exhausted, spent on new clothing, traded for coins that even naive Karasaad recognizes as a ruinous exchange. But few enough merchants are willing to deal with them, and fewer still have the patience for bargaining with a mix of pantomime and fragmented language.

The initial thrill of escape has worn off, their pace now grueling in an effort to balance the time they will surely lose once her pregnancy truly shows. Two Qunari— two _Tal-Vashoth_ , a word that still tastes like mud and iron on the back of his tongue, even if it rolls like silver off Issath’s. When they find food, Karasaad gives most to Issath, since she feeds two; but apples, cold scraps and foraged herbs make an unappetizing meal at best. Karasaad regrets not training with the bow or throwing spear, as his sword and shield are of little use against what game they can find. Issath makes small snares, an unexpected skill for a farmer. When Karasaad voices his surprise, she laughs and says she asked an old hunter to teach her.

(For the first time, Karasaad wonders just how long Issath had been planning.)

Another month, and they just reached Antiva. Issath’s Fereldan, hoarded in whispered conversations and careful questioning, has proved of limited use. But she is still learning, a mish-mash pidgin that (accompanied with broad gestures and an easy smile) gets them through, and helps the fragile humans tolerate the stone-faced Karasaad.

(He could laugh surrounded by his shield-brothers, or when in the curtain of her hair, but under unfamiliar skies and walking strange roads littered with dark fruit, what is there to laugh at? The olives break underfoot, and each stained print tracks just how lost he is.)

Then into the Free Marches. Issath is just starting to show, though the ample curve of her belly masks the pregnancy from most. Some nausea, the child making their displeasure known, and Issath asks for _mint_ tea. They spend miserable nights huddled under trees, their cloaks for blankets and clinging to one another for warmth. The air is chill and clammy compared to Par Vollen, the sun a runny, yolky thing after the rich island heat.

This far south in the Free Marches, isolated and with no intention of going bandit, Karasaad thinks they may be safe from the Qunari seekers who capture or kill the Tal-Vashoth.

(Him, they may kill; but he cannot think of his sweet Issath undergoing re-education. They would rob the spark from her eyes and the lightning beneath her skin, the way she flashes radiance at the world and the world is forced to reflect it back on her. To live in the Qun is to be bounded by it, as the sea by the shore— but she is the wave that bursts the seawall.)

He knows they would not have made it this far if not for her, her carefully-cobbled language and the easy smile that coaxes a farmer into letting them spend the night in a barn. The next day she bites her lip and gives a coy peek to a passing soldier. The woman blushes persimmon and offers them a share of dark bread and cheese.

(Karasaad eats his bread while Issath and the soldier-woman make soft moans under a nearby tree. Glad she’s found pleasure where she can, more glad they have lunch. Confused at this soldier who is a _woman_ , a thing which cannot exist within the Qun. Women may fight, but they are not _soldiers_. But this paradox is buried between Issath’s thighs and unlikely to vanish in a puff of logic.)

After, Issath grins and waves goodbye, blows a kiss off her fingertips before ambling down the road with Karasaad.

He sneaks a glance behind them. Still no puff of logic.

. . .

 

Had they a pot for water, they could boil leaves and pretend it numbs the hunger-pain.

Had they familiar herbs, they could nourish themselves off chewed roots and flavor their scanty foraging.

Had they a friend in these new lands, one who could speak a familiar language and assure them that yes, things get better, the hope would have filled their bellies.

(Had Issath not been so careful to shower him with affection, to pillow his head against her bosom and croon old songs from their abandoned home, Karasaad might have started to wonder, again, _why_ he chose to leave Par Vollen. Whether he or she had been the one to plan this.)

But they have no cookware and the lands this far south are different enough that neither Issath or Karasaad recognize any nutritious plants. And any qunlat they might hear would likely be Tal-Vashoth or Ben-Hassrath, and neither promise safety.

Issath makes him shelter in her arms.

(He thumbs the fraying band about his wrist. Wonders at the tokens she still wears.)

. . .

 

They spend the night in a barn, the dry-grass smell of straw thick enough to choke. They would be up and on their way before the dawn— or at least that was the plan— but it is dry, it is warm, and it is the closest to comfort they’ve had for weeks. Karasaad drowses, curled around Issath as she sleeps with her mouth half-open, drooling on his chest.

Then the door opens, and a farmer starts yelling about Qunari in his barn.

Issath wakes with a start, rolling over and stammering a tangle of tongues— ‘please’ and ‘sorry’ in Rivaini, ‘shirt’ in Antivan (not that she knows, having mixed up the words for apologies and clothing), and ‘hello’ in Fereldan.

They depart hastily, Karasaad grateful that the farmer reserves himself to shaking his fist at a distance. Bearing his shield and sword, they have no true need to fear the man— but Karasaad would rather not blood his sword this way, and an angry mob holds more terror than one lone farmer.

But once safely on the road, her sides split with laughter and she collapses against him in a wave of silver mirth.

“ _Oh_ the things I said, the things I— I might as well have been squawking, for all the sense I made!”

Her sunny glee in reinterpreting it as an ‘adventure’ helps soften it, helps melt his edges enough to forget (however briefly) of his own bed in Par Vollen and the rice and salt-fish that would fill his belly after morning practice.

. . .

 

Finally, their luck changes.

Or more accurately, Issath made their luck.

Another village, hard-packed dirt roads and wooden fences. They have discussed finding work, but where? Unskilled labor, though Karasaad wonders if he might try his luck as a sell-sword. As long as Issath were safe, he could earn coin to help her gain a plot of land, some chickens…

Karasaad receives a stern lecture from the local peace-keeper, a scar-knuckled man. Issath, plump and soft and nowhere near a nightmare like himself, winds away. Talks with a small farmer with a brand on her face. Despite their striking contrast— the dwarf is short and pale, Issath dark and still far taller than most humans— their laughter mingles, inseparable.

Karasaad hears them exchange more words, fumbles in dwarven and Fereldan and splatters of qunlat, more comprehensible to him than the only half-understood monologue the man seems intent on delivering.

Later he goes to meet Issath’s new friend. Her name is Lizbet, and she is a ‘duster’ who came to the surface years ago. She recognizes Issath’s pregnancy and has an offer for work.

It’s a sorely-needed blessing.

. . .

 

Lizbet and Issath find common ground, using comically broad expressions and smatterings of shared language. Lizbet’s wife, Naya, a thin elf with silver-thread scars on the back of her wrists, stays quiet in the background. Finds blankets for Karasaad and Issath, but winces when he moves too fast or his shadow falls across her.

He learns to hold himself small, to tuck himself down and keep his hands close. Sits when he can, a corner seat where he listens to the three women and feels ever more left out.

Lizbet asks their names— learns ‘Issath’ is ‘farmer’ and ‘Karasaad’ is ‘soldier,’ and asks what their _real_ names are.

Karasaad does not understand the question, but Issath’s eyes light up.

“ _Mint_ ,” she says, clean and sweet as fresh water.

He is no longer a soldier, but he can still shield his nascent family. “Beres-taar.”

(Going to bed that night, he realizes once-was-Issath’s, now-is-Mint’s bracelet has fallen off his wrist. He does not remember when it broke, or when she lost her own.)

. . .

 

Mint adapts, grows— sinks her roots in new soil, throws her head back and reaches to the sky. Lifts Lizbet in her plump arms, swinging the dwarf until the duster laughs and tells her to save it for the baby. Naya is no Bird, but she listens when Mint sings at night. Sings her own songs too, and even if Mint cannot understand half the words she loves the tune. They trade songs beneath the stars.

(In time, Mint learns the words— first recitation, the music matching them to memory. Then meaning, and she grins like a split peach at Naya’s startled delight when Mint finally sings the elf one of her own songs. A pregnant Tal-Vashosh singing nursery rhymes to an elf escapee from an alienage— Karasaad could never have imagined the things Beres-taar would see.)

Mint fits in their small farm, buries herself in the dirt and gathering. Comes back each day smelling of green things, fresh things, sun and sweat. Her thighs thicken, her belly swells as she regains weight.

Beres-taar has never been anything besides soldier and fugitive. He wakes early, maintains his sword and shield (his weapons, his soul— because his name, his _identity_ has changed but these tie him back) and traces a practice ground with his foot. Spars invisible opponents until sweat drips down his back and Mint watches with hungry eyes. She cocks her head, thrusts her hip in invitation, and they couple beneath the trees.

Lizbet and Naya’s kindness is appreciated, but Beres-taar and Mint are such _large_ mouths to feed, even when they pay in work. Mint is large enough, strong enough to do what few things the self-sufficient women cannot, and Beres-taar still fumbles.

He reconsiders going as a sell-sword.

. . .

 

Snow falls, catches on Mint’s lashes as she huddles close.

“Be careful,” she whispers, still in qunlat.

Beres-taar nods, kisses her forehead. Her belly brushes his hip and he reaches down to rest his fingers across her stomach’s swell. Full, ripe— close to bursting with their child, but she reassures him (again) that she’ll be fine. She’s already born three children after all, and the only difference is that this time, she’s _keeping_ it.

“And between the three of us, we might make up for one _tamassran_ , ah?” she jokes, lifting under his chin. “Be careful out there.”

She does not ask him to come back.

(She’s used him, escaped— she does not _need_ him anymore, and has caught the doubts cobwebbing his eyes. If he finds the camaraderie with the mercenaries, if he can trade his ‘ox-man’ strength for respect, he might be happier out there. She will let him go freely and wish him the best if he chooses to walk out of her life. She will not chain him.)

Still, she stands bundled against the chill until he vanishes from sight and his footprints fill with snow.

. . .

 

When the baby comes, and is cleaned up, Mint lying back with hair sweat-plastered to her neck and body aching, Lizbet and Naya say they need a name.

“Elizabeth,” Mint says, mustering a bedraggled smile at Lizbet’s round-mouthed surprise. “For our first friend.”

(One last gift for Beres-taar, should he never return— they agreed ‘Elizabeth’ for a daughter, ‘Gavin’ for a son. Gavin, the scar-knuckled peacekeeper, eventually made his peace with the looming Beres-taar and the men had fallen into a habit of weekly cards and sparring.)

“And your surname?”

Mint blinks, thinks at first Lizbet stuttered— and Naya explains family names. A way of tracking lineage without the _tamassran_ breeding program.

“Adaar,” for all she’s left broken.

. . .

 

Soldiers, freelance mercenaries between jobs, the sort of fighting men one harsh winter away from banditry— assessments Mint never had to make before, but that Gavin has discussed with Beres-taar, and the conversations seeped through to Mint.

(Beres-taar swore no matter how harsh the clime, he’d never stoop to banditry— he may be Tal-Vashoth, but he is _beres-taar_.)

The men sit at the largest table in the middle of the room, pinch the innkeeper’s daughter and make crude jokes. Naya shivers in on herself, huddles behind Mint. Mint uses her bulk to screen the little elf. Quiet dinner out, meant to enjoy the mulled cider and hot pie— now waiting for escape. The tension waits to be cut, and Gavin is but one man.

The girl smacks the last groping hand, and her brother takes over— the soldiers complain, and Gavin rises to his feet. They rise as well, all five with their grimy leathers and battered helmets, with swords and axes at their hand.

The door opens, and a living wall enters. Mint’s heart flips, an ocean dances behind her eyes.

Beres-taar came back.

Tired, worn— new marks on him, her unblooded _karasaad_ now with a wicked scar below one cheek and more gliding beneath his shirt. Hard lines on his mouth. He grips his shield, raises just slightly, and reads the room in a glance.

( _Beres-taar came back_ , she sings, a moon-struck elation that bubbles like sea-foam.)

“Gavin, my friend. It has been hard few months. My sword and shield return to your side,” he says, rumbling like breaking waves.

“Good to see you again, my friend.” Gavin smiles tight, skin too small for his relief, and the mercenaries leave their coins and filter out the door in silent unity.

Then Mint crashes into him and he folds himself around her as if he never left.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Push and Pull (Fertile Ground Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334001) by [Shellepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellepink/pseuds/Shellepink)




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